


The Light Is No Salvation

by airspaniel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: Credence steps further into the room and the shadows follow him, and Percival squares his shoulders, lifts his chin and does not let himself press back into the wall. Credence is taller than him, and he's not sure when that happened. Not sure if it's always been true, just hidden in that hunched posture, the desperate attempt to make himself a smaller target; to be ignored. The man in front of him stands proud and unafraid.

  “It's all right, you know,” Credence says, lifting a hand to Percival's face. “I didn't come for conversation.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [How Long in the Dank Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756563) by [lushthemagicdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lushthemagicdragon/pseuds/lushthemagicdragon). 



> So it started when @meerkats linked me to [this gorgeous art](http://thedesertviking.tumblr.com/post/153986502831/lord-barebone-follower-of-gellert-grindelwald) by @thedesertviking on tumblr, and I was smitten. And then @meerkats wrote this gorgeous drabble about it and asked me to beta, and I haven't been able to get this premise out of my head since. Then this happened.
> 
> Thanks to @meerkats for the beta! <3

Percival sleeps, and only knows he's sleeping when he opens his eyes and can see. His dreams are dark, shifting things, nebulous and threatening; filled with shadows, but shadows prove the presence of light, which does not exist in his cell. When he opens his eyes again to nothing, he does not feel rested, but shifts himself up against the wall and forces himself to be alert. The sound of his breath echoes in the bare room.

_No. That's not an echo._

He manages to stand, to conjure a weak _lumos_ and he squints at the sudden flash. The light flickers and gutters like a candle flame, sending shadows slithering to the corners.

Credence is standing by the door, impassive, and the first thing Percival thinks is _oh. Your hair..._

The severe cut forced upon him by his mother is gone, replaced by long raven waves piled in a messy topknot, a few soft looking strands framing his face. It should make him look feminine, but instead the contrast enhances his sharp cheekbones and defined jaw; his full lips twisted in a knowing smirk leaving no shadow of a doubt that here stands a man.

More than that. A weapon, blade-sharp and beautiful. _Damn._

"I'm so glad you approve, Mr. Graves," Credence says, in seeming response to his thoughts. "After all, I did try for so long to please you."

Percival drops his gaze, caught between guilt and shame and something warmer he refuses to consider. His hand closes into a fist and the light goes out. Across the cell, Credence laughs.

"Don't hide now," he says, mocking. “We were nearly having an honest conversation.” Soft light fills the room at a wave of his hand, warm and inviting, but it doesn't seem to touch him. The shadows wreath him like cold smoke.

“It's not a conversation if you're the only one talking,” Percival shoots back.

Credence smiles. “But it was honest.” He steps further into the room and the shadows follow him, and Percival squares his shoulders, lifts his chin and does not let himself press back into the wall. Credence is taller than him, and he's not sure when that happened. Not sure if it's always been true, just hidden in that hunched posture, the desperate attempt to make himself a smaller target; to be ignored. The man in front of him stands proud and unafraid.

“It's all right, you know,” Credence says, lifting a hand to Percival's face. “I didn't come for conversation.” He touches his thumb to the split in Percival's lip, presses down just enough to open the cut, and Percival hisses.

“Credence, don't.”

Credence presses harder, slides the pad of his thumb across Percival's mouth, and Percival tastes iron as he paints it red.

“You're so warm, even now,” Credence muses, almost to himself. “You always were so warm...”

“I said stop.” Percival lashes out and grabs one pale wrist. He can't help noticing how his fingers circle it completely; can't help tightening his grip as he pushes the hand away. There's blood down the length of Credence's thumb, across the ball, down to the base of his palm.

Credence flinches, curls into himself in a movement that seems involuntary yet practiced, face turned away and eyes cast down to the floor; a flash of the boy he once was, waiting to take the hit.

Percival lets go like he's been burned, hands up and open, disarmed, because _he would never -_

"I'm sorry," he says, desperate to reassure the boy. "Credence, I'm so sorry."

Credence gathers himself, seems angry for a moment before his expression smooths once more into the cat-like smile he's been wearing.

“I wondered what it would take to get your hands on me again,” he murmurs, chuckling softly at something he sees in Percival's face. “Oh, you weren't the one moving them,” he says, hand still frozen in the small space between them where Percival had left it. “But they were very much yours.” He wets his lips, brings his thumb to his mouth and licks at the smear of Percival's blood.

Percival's mouth goes dry. “I would've never...” he manages, barely.

“I know you would never,” says Credence, interrupting. “But _he_ would. He did. And so much more.”

Percival doesn't want to hear this. He doesn't.

"It wasn't all pain, Mr. Graves," Credence purrs, lips brushing against his own flesh, against Percival's blood. "I've learned other ways to be touched."

“Credence, I would never hurt you,” _like that, touch you like that_ , Percival doesn't say because it's a lie, it's a lie in every way, and Credence stares at him like he knows it.

“You did hurt me, Mr. Graves. You hurt me when you abandoned me. You hurt me when 'you would never' because _I wanted you to_.”

“You didn't need that from me,” Percival says, and he believes it down to his core. Credence needed a friend, a mentor, not another selfish person to take advantage of the kid. Want had nothing to do with it, on either side.

That's a harder sell, and he's not buying it. “You didn't know what you wanted,” he finishes, lamely.

“Past tense, now. That's progress,” Credence teases, moving closer. “But I didn't ask before – What did _you_ want, Mr. Graves?”

Percival holds eye contact and wills all his resolve to show in his face. “I wanted to help you. I want to help you, Credence, that man is...”

“Stop,” Credence says, simply, and Percival doesn't know why, but he does. Fingers ghost down his shoulders, over his shirtsleeves which still sit bunched up over his elbows, and when that touch reaches his bare forearms he inhales sharply at the chill. He lets Credence take hold of his wrists, lets him pull his hands up until his palms are pressed against Credence's cheeks, cradling his face. Credence leans into the touch, and slides his own hands over top of Percival's, slotting their fingers together.

“This was the first place I felt your hands,” Credence murmurs, and Percival doesn't understand. “Oh, you had touched me before, on the shoulder, on the hand, innocent touches all. But _this_. This was the first time I felt like something precious.”

Percival understands, and he shudders in revulsion and something far too close to jealousy. “That wasn't...”

“I know it wasn't you,” Credence says. “But these were the hands.” He lifts one away from his face and brings it to his lips, kisses the palm almost chastely.

“Did you want it to be you?” he asks, breath hot against Percival's fingertips. His tongue slips out to wet his lips again, pink against the red of his mouth, red like blood and Percival is transfixed. Credence opens his eyes, meets Percival's stare.

“I wanted it to be you,” Credence whispers. He kisses Percival's fingertips, and Percival can feel the heat of him, how easy it would be to push his fingers _inside._ His hands are shaking with how easy it would be.

Credence smiles that cat-smile again. “What _do_ you want, Mr. Graves?”

“I want...” Percival starts, and hates himself for how he has to start over. “I want to help you.”

Credence leans in even closer, presses Percival's hands to his face again. “You want to save me.”

Percival sighs. “Yes.”

Then Credence is a firm heat against his body, chest to chest, that sharp nose dragging up the side of Percival's throat, scenting him, until they're cheek to cheek against the wall and Credence's lips are brushing his ear.

The boy's low laugh is a physical sensation more than a sound. “I don't want to be saved.”

“Credence...” Percival doesn't even know how to finish his thought. _Please stop. Please_ don't _stop. Please..._

“What do you want?” Credence repeats, and it would be the easiest thing yet to tell the truth, but Percival clenches his jaw and turns away.

“Let me go,” he says. It almost comes out like he means it.

Suddenly it's cold, unbearably so, as Credence pulls away. Percival shivers in his absence.

“Such a pity.” Credence says, disappointed. He waves a hand and extinguishes the light, plunging the room once more into darkness.

“You can lie to me, Mr. Graves, but how long can you lie to yourself?” His voice echoes off the walls, the sound of the shadows themselves, and Percival is alone before the last word fades from his ears. 

He sinks to the ground, pushes his back against the wall, holds his head in his hands, and tries to breathe.


End file.
